<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>lost in the wilderness by escherzo</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720068">lost in the wilderness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo'>escherzo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Beholding, Body Horror, Dream Sex, Eyeballs, Just A Shit-Ton of Eyeballs, Other, Overstimulation, Oviposition, Tentacle Rape, post-S3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:14:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something atop the tower. He knows this. Something a person is not meant to see and survive and understand. The threads of his humanity pull against him as he reaches the tower, as he slowly pushes open the great double doors, trying to urge him backwards. Back into safety. Back into the unending loop of well-worn dreams. <i>There is something atop the tower</i>, it says. <i>Turn back.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Sims/Other, Jonathan Sims/Tentacles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>120</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lost in the wilderness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Lovingly dedicated to the DNA wormschat (especially @fluxoid, whose tentacle monster I am borrowing to wreck Jon - thank you!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This is a dream Jon knows, but does not know. </p><p>The sky above him does not blink. Its lidless gaze is an ever-present prickle at the back of his neck, the inescapable weight of watching. Its pupil is deep and dark and gleams in place of the sun. The world is so dark and yet so bright. Nothing can hide in the shadows here, but there is no blue sky, no clouds, no sun to allow him to cling to scraps of the World-As-Was. </p><p>The sky he knows. The rest he does not, and this scares him more than any of the dreams. </p><p>Stretching out before him is a wasteland, endless dull and graying grassy fields. Somewhere on the wind, the faint scent of rot carries. He reaches out a hand, and flecks of white ash settle, stark against scarred, dark skin. The ground beneath him hums with hunger. Something is wrong, so terribly wrong, with the world, and he struggles to draw in a breath in the face of it. </p><p>In the distance, a great tower looms up, black and jagged against the sky. It is not for him, not yet, and yet it calls to him. Like the eye above him, it watches all. He shudders. Tries to close his eyes, and finds he cannot. </p><p>There is something atop the tower. He knows this. Something a person is not meant to see and survive and understand. The threads of his humanity pull against him as he reaches the tower, as he slowly pushes open the great double doors, trying to urge him backwards. Back into safety. Back into the unending loop of well-worn dreams. <i>There is something atop the tower</i>, it says. <i>Turn back.</i> </p><p>He hesitates. Curls his fingers tight around the cold metal railings of the stairs that spiral upwards into the death of his humanity. </p><p>“I need to know,” he whispers aloud, and he can feel the sharp shiver of pleasure from the Eye above him all through his body. He presses on. </p><p>Inside, the tower is empty and complete in its stillness. There is no light and yet he finds he can see every step of his slow march upwards, hear every echoing footstep as it rings out, loud enough to drown out the frantic beating of his heart. And all at once, he finds he has reached the summit.  </p><p>There is a presence atop the tower. A great, writhing black mass of tendrils, each one covered in hundreds of wide, unblinking eyes with pupils so large as to swallow the color entirely, one great eye at the center of its mass so large it is all, for a moment, that he can see. The thing that Should Not Be Known gazes into him and he gazes back, unable to look away from its pulsing bulk. Unable to not meet the eyes that See right through him. </p><p>It is only as the tendrils reach for him, enveloping him, that he realizes he is naked. He wants to cry out in horror as he realizes what is to come, but the words stick in his throat as the strange, cold slime of its tentacles curl along his bare arms, up his legs, a thick tendril wrapping securely around his waist, and all at once he is lifted off his feet and suspended in the air, exposed to the whole world below from his place here atop the tower. It still watches him. Every one of its eyes are trained on him. </p><p>He grits his teeth and fights against the grip, but the tentacles curl in tighter and he finds he cannot move his limbs at all. It has him. It will do what it likes to him, and he is powerless to do anything but feel. </p><p>“Please,” he says, though he knows it cannot understand him and would not stop even if it could. More tendrils slither up his legs and around his chest and it spreads his legs wider. “Please, something else. <i>Stop.</i>”</p><p>One thick tentacle finds his hole and strokes over it, once, twice, cataloguing the way he cannot help but shiver as the very tip begins to slowly, inexorably force its way inside. He can feel every sickening, slick bump of the eyeballs along its length as it works deeper, and it hurts in such a strange, invasive way that all he can do is scream until his voice goes hoarse. Until another tendril wraps around his throat and pushes into his open mouth, working its way slick across his tongue and pressing at the resistance of his throat. </p><p>He gags once, twice, and all of the tendrils tighten at once, and it is in that moment of shocked inhale as the breath is squeezed out of his chest that the tendril in his mouth begins to push deeper, past resistance and into the tight clutch of his throat. He chokes, trying desperately to breathe in through his nose but failing to gather in air, and his head buzzes with static. He can feel every smooth bump of the eyeballs as the tendril works its way so far into his throat that he is sure it must be visible from the outside.   </p><p>The tentacle pushing deeper into his hole begins to move again, then, and he cannot look down enough to see it but all at once it makes him Know the way that his stomach is bulging out as it takes him. The way every movement is visible as it works itself deeper than anything should. The way it can see into all of his insides. He cannot beg or scream for it to stop and when he tries to close his eyes he finds it will not let him. </p><p>Another tendril joins the first and he is stretched wider still, desperate, wracked noises slipping out around the mass in his forced-open mouth. It hurts so badly. He wants to let unconsciousness take him, but knows that the point in all of this is to experience it. The Eye does not wish for his escape and so he will not have it. He realizes all at once that he is not breathing. That he no longer needs to. </p><p>He realizes, too, that he is hard, despite the pain or because of it, and he lets out a muffled cry as a thick, bumpy tendril curls slow around his cock, tight enough to hurt. Another, long and thin, traces over the head of his cock and he tries to struggle away again as it finds a hole there too and sinks in, all of him invaded. He does not want to like this. It makes him Know that he does. </p><p>It begins to move, then. Not the slow, pulsing fullness of it seeking out his insides and filling them with its awful knowledge, but a baser movement, all of its bulk moving and fucking him all at once, letting him feel every slick bump of it as it pulls out of him and then forces its way back inside. </p><p>His eyes fill with tears as the thick tendrils around his waist push him back into the movement, ragdolling him back onto the tendrils in his hole and then forward into the one that fills his aching throat. Slow and then faster, the prickling burn of pleasure in his gut turning into a hum that fills his whole body as he comes. </p><p>It does not stop then; he did not expect it to. It keeps pulsing, keeps fucking him even as the pleasure becomes pain again, stimulation beyond what he can bear, keeps filling his head with the knowledge of what he looks like in this moment, spread and suspended before the world, eyes wide and shocked with desire and drool at the corners of his mouth as it takes him apart. </p><p>The pressure shifts, changes. There is movement in the tendrils that is not the thrusting fullness; it is something deeper, and with every movement he can feel the pressure shifting, moving down. <i>Eggs,</i> he thinks for a wild moment, and then knows all at once, <i>no, not eggs. Eyes. Eyes on the inside.</i> </p><p>He can feel them push out of the ends of the tendrils and settle inside him, deeper than anything should go, one becoming two becoming dozens of small, round eyes, making his stomach slowly bulge out further as he is made to take more and more of them, and he shudders mindlessly at the stimulation. They fill him until his skin begins to ache, holding him in place as he is bred, and he comes again and again, lost with it, unable to be anything but a vessel for this creature. A vessel for his god. </p><p>When it finally withdraws, pulling out of him with sickening slick sounds and leaving him gasping, alone on the cold stone of the tower, he is half-conscious with overstimulation and pain. Something is twisting inside him. Something is—becoming. He shivers, wracked with chills, wrapping his arms around himself, but it does little to comfort the ache inside him. He does not know how long he spends there. </p><p>He looks to the Eye above him and the ache shifts. His skin burns and prickles, every inch of him lost in the awful sensation, and he pulls himself to hands and knees. There is something in his throat. A lump he cannot swallow to dislodge. He coughs, and coughs, and when he draws his palm away from his mouth an eye rests in it, staring back at him. The burning, crawling sensation he feels all over himself all at once peaks and then is gone, and from the worm-pocked holes in his skin, a hundred eyes open and look back at it. </p><p>He does not scream. All at once he finds he does not want to. It feels—right. He looks to the Eye again.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, and the ceaseless tide of the Watcher washes the dreams away one final time.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>